Every day, my love for my new bride Nalani grows. It expands ever larger, threatening to eventually outsize the universe itself. It is an unstoppable force that consumes anything and everything, and it only wants one thing: to feed.
No, wait, that’s Nalani. My bad.
Note the look of strong disapproval on Nalani’s face. While this is a look I see fairly often (for example, any time I break out a gem from my never-ending supply of dad jokes, which I’ve been stockpiling for when I’m actually a dad), it’s guaranteed any time I point my phone at her these days. She’s really self-conscious about that belly of hers, so I feel the need to remind everyone again: do not tell Nalani I’m posting pictures like these on the internet. I will die. Slowly.
Speaking of things I’m storing up for when I become a dad, I should probably mention that Nalani’s belly isn’t the only thing growing around here. In addition to the dad jokes I’ve been collecting, I’ve also gotten a head start on my dad bod. I don’t know whether it’s Nalani’s expert cooking skills, a job that keeps me at a desk at least eight hours a day, or a sympathy pregnancy (I’ve been working that angle with Nalani, but she’s not buying it at all), but the old midsection has definitely been expanding. Granted, it’s not expanding as fast as Nalani’s, but what could? The universe didn’t expand that fast after the Big Bang. Laws of physics are being broken right here in my own home, and I fully expect Nalani’s belly to tear open the space-time continuum at any moment.
Some day she’s going to read this stuff and, on that day, I will cease to exist. It’s inevitable.
In an effort to stave off an increase in my own gravitational pull, I’ve started a routine of jogging in the morning. Or at night. Sometimes in the afternoon, weather permitting. All right, I’ll admit it; I don’t actually have a routine. Sometimes I’ll just be in the shower, and I’ll look down and notice how much my gut has grown since last time I looked, and I’ll bolt out the door and run until I can’t worry about getting fat because my only thoughts are about how much pain I’m in. It’s not so much a routine as something that happens erratically, solely dependent on how much difficulty I’m having locating my own feet.
One other thing that really helps me take my mind off my own weight gain is scrolling through my photos of Nalani. It’s really difficult to think of anything else when I’m looking at a photograph of her beautiful, smiling face.
Take this photo, for example. I mean, damn. She’s gargantuan. In a few million years, scientists will be extracting fragments of her DNA from amber, maxing it with the DNA of frogs, and charging people admission for the chance to see her devour a goat. She’s so big, terrified icebergs move out of her way when they see her coming. In recent weeks, local tides have changed. I would not be surprised to wake up tomorrow morning and find moons circling her. Her front and back are in different time zones. Greenpeace has dispatched a ship to stave off harpoon-wielding poachers. In her spare time, she’s taken to climbing the Empire State Building and swatting down aircraft. When she talks to herself, the phone company bills her for roaming charges. She makes the rockin’ world go ’round.
My God, I am so dead if she ever finds this place.
Just in case, one last photo of me being extra-nice to Nalani, and trying to ease the pain she’s enduring while carrying our child. Maybe, just maybe, when she eventually does read this, she’ll remember that I love her, big or small, and that I always tried to treat her well when I wasn’t posting jokes about her body changes to the internet. If she can remember that, maybe she’ll make my death quick and painless.
I feel the need to mention something here before I close up shop for the night. Ladies, if there are any of you out there reading this, you are beautiful no matter what size you wear, whether you’re pregnant or not. That goes for the guys, too. The world puts far too much pressure on all of us to have perfect magazine-ready bodies, and it’s really nothing but a bunch of toxic brainwashing. Whatever your waist, bust, or dick size, it’s all just packaging, and anyone who judges a gift by the paper it’s wrapped in is overlooking everything that’s really important. Anyone who thinks they’re justified in shaming anyone else for how their body looks can fuck right off if I have anything to say about it. I may joke about how big Nalani’s belly has gotten, but I want it to be perfectly clear that she could get big enough to pop the roof off the house and I’d still love her just as much as I did at the size she was before. Her weight has no bearing on her worth as a person, wife, or soon-to-be mother, and the shape of her body has absolutely no relation to how I feel about her. She is perfect. She always has been, and always will be, and that goes for you, too.